The Complaints

‘Yes?’ she demanded.

‘Joa

Her face relaxed a little. ‘Come on up,’ she said. Then, turning to Fox: ‘Thanks again for the lift – I’d probably still be waiting there.’

‘My pleasure.’

She held out her hand and he shook it. The diary was too big for any of his pockets, so he carried it with him into the lobby. When the lift doors opened, Gordon Lovatt emerged, momentarily surprised to find someone facing him. Lovatt was dressed to the nines in what looked like a bespoke three-piece pinstripe suit. A gold watch chain dangled from the pockets of the waistcoat. His silk tie boasted an extravagant knot and his hair looked freshly barbered. He nodded a greeting but then decided more was needed.

‘Gordon Lovatt,’ he said, holding out his hand.

The two men shook. ‘I know who you are,’ Fox told him, not bothering to reciprocate with an introduction. The man next to Lovatt was much older, but dressed in what looked like an even more expensive suit. He too held out his hand.

‘Jack Broughton,’ he a

Fox just nodded and squeezed past both men, turning to face them once he was inside the lift. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and waited for the doors to close. Jack Broughton seemed already to have dismissed him, and was entering the penthouse, greeting his only surviving child with a kiss. Lovatt, on the other hand, had stayed in the lobby to stare at Fox, the same enquiring look on his face.

‘Going down,’ the lift’s automated female voice said. The doors slid shut and Fox let go of the breath he’d been holding.

There was no sign of the PR man’s car outside, so he’d either left it in the car park or come by taxi. If the car park, then he had to have some way of accessing the compound. But then the same was true if he’d been dropped off from a cab – he still had to get past the gates. So then maybe Joa

Fox got into his own car and placed Charlie Brogan’s diary on the passenger seat. Then he stared at it, wondering what the Grampian Complaints would make of his recent activities. He’d been very careful all morning – watching for cars tailing him, for people loitering or following him. It had been easy for them to keep tabs on him the previous week – he’d not been alerted to the probability. But now he knew he’d been under surveillance, that made things a great deal harder for any team trying to track him. Then again, if he was going to keep pulling stunts like this one… It took him a further three or four minutes to decide, but at last he picked up the diary and flipped it open.

He started with the Monday of the previous week, but found nothing immediately of interest. It wasn’t that Brogan used a code, but like most people he used initials and abbreviations. The J in ‘8 p.m. – J – Kitchin’ Fox assumed was Joa

After quarter of an hour, Fox closed the book and turned the ignition. On his way back to Leith Police Station he made two stops. One was at a stationer’s, where he bought a padded envelope big enough to take the diary. The other was at a phone shop, where he bought a pay-as-you-go mobile, using his credit card. If he was still under surveillance, this new phone wouldn’t keep him off the radar for long… but maybe long enough.

And it was certain to a

He parked his car outside the police station just long enough to drop the envelope off at reception. He’d written Max Dearborn’s name on the front. It would puzzle Max, perhaps, but Fox didn’t mind that in the least. Back in the car, his old mobile started ringing. Fox checked the caller ID but made no attempt to answer. When the ringing stopped, he used his new phone and called Tony Kaye back.

‘Who’s this?’ Kaye asked, not recognising the number.

‘It’s Malcolm. This is how to get me from now on.’

‘You’ve changed phones?’

‘In case they’re tracking me.’

‘You’re paranoid.’ Kaye paused. ‘Good thinking, though – reckon I should do the same?’

‘Have they spoken to you again?’ They: Grampian Complaints.

‘No – how about you?’

‘Later today. So why were you calling?’

‘I just wanted a moan. Hang on a sec…’ Fox listened as Kaye moved from the Complaints office to the hallway. ‘Those two are driving me nuts,’ he said. ‘It’s like they’ve known one another since the playground.’

‘Other than that, how’s Gilchrist settling in?’

‘I don’t like that he’s sitting at your desk.’

‘Then offer to swap.’

‘He’s not having my desk.’

‘Then we’re stuck with it. Has McEwan been in?’

‘He’s not speaking to me.’

‘We’ve piled his plate high with shit,’ Fox conceded.

‘And not even tied a bib around his neck,’ Kaye added. ‘Is your afternoon grilling to be courtesy of a woman called Stoddart?’

‘Any tips for handling her?’

‘Asbestos gloves, Malcolm.’

‘Great, thanks.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Can you get Naysmith for me?’

‘What?’

‘I want a word with him – but out of Gilchrist’s earshot.’

‘I’ll fetch him.’ It was Kaye’s turn to pause. ‘Are you playing it cool, or has it actually slipped your mind?’

Fox realised immediately what he meant. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to her?’

‘She hasn’t been in this morning. Gilchrist had to fetch something from his desk at the Chop Shop, so I went along with him and took a look. I asked him if she had any meetings, but he didn’t know.’

‘Well, thanks for trying.’

‘I’m not giving up yet. Joe!’ Fox realised that Kaye was calling from the doorway. ‘Here he comes,’ Kaye said. The phone was handed to Naysmith. ‘It’s Foxy,’ Fox heard Kaye explain.

‘Malcolm,’ Naysmith said.

‘Morning, Joe. I hear you and Gilchrist are getting on famously.’

‘I suppose.’

‘So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t invite him out for a drink after work.’

‘No…’ Naysmith drew the word out way past its natural length.

‘You’d probably suggest Minter’s, and you’d be there by five thirty.’

‘Right.’ Again the word took on elasticated form in Naysmith’s mouth.

‘No need to tell him it was my idea.’

‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’

‘Nothing’s going on, Joe. Just take him for that drink.’ Fox ended the call. He had plenty of time to kill before his meeting at Fettes. At a newsagent’s, he bought the Evening News, a salad roll and a bottle of water, then headed in the general direction of Inverleith, parking by the north entrance to the Botanics. He located Classic FM on the radio and ate his roll while flicking through the paper. Charlie Brogan was no longer news, and neither was Vince Faulkner. People were foaming at the mouth about the former RBS boss’s pension and perks. The tram dispute had entered its ‘eleventh hour’, with the council telling the contractors there was no more cash to put on the table. And now the Dunfermline Building Society was in trouble. Fox seemed to remember the Prime Minister was from Dunfermline… No, Kirkcaldy, but Dunfermline was in his constituency. Fox’s parents had held an account with the Dunfermline – he wondered if Mitch still had money there. Fox’s own money was in the Co-op. It was the one bank he hadn’t heard anything about. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not.

The piece of music finished and the a